


A Cure for the Common Birthday

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Birthday Presents, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25312762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: It’s Quentin’s birthday, but in the midst of his father’s cancer diagnosis, he feels there isn’t much to celebrate. Eliot finds the answer in the most surprising of places.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	A Cure for the Common Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WonderfullyWonderingAlone59](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderfullyWonderingAlone59/gifts).



> This is for WonderfullyWonderingAlone59 on her birthday! I’m so glad we met and bonded over our mutual love of Jason Ralph. Have a lovely birthday! For you other readers, comments and kudos are magic! Follow me at Neptunes_Net on Twitter for more content and, as always, enjoy!

A Cure for the Common Birthday 

By Quentins_Quill (aka Lexalicious70) 

“Good morning love, and happy birthday!” 

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut tighter at the words, despite the inviting smell of fresh coffee and chocolate croissants. He’d be awake but feigning sleep for the last ten minutes, wishing he knew a spell that would allow him to become someone--anyone--except for Quentin Coldwater. 

_ Elton John. Hillary Clinton, Cher, the guy with the bowl haircut on The Big Bang Theory. Please, just for today. _

“I know you’re awake.” 

Quentin opened his eyes, resigning himself to the inevitability of his own life. Eliot stood over him, a breakfast tray in both hands. 

“Fine. I’m awake,” Quentin said as he sat up. Eliot set the tray across his lap. Outside, the Chelsea streets and sidewalks were already busy, the sounds of traffic muffled but still audible beyond the second floor of the townhouse he and Eliot currently rented. “And do we have to acknowledge my birthday?” 

Eliot sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Oh Q . . . I know you’d rather be back in Fillory, but Margo has things well in hand until--” 

“Until my dad dies,” Quentin concluded, poking his croissant aside and prying the lid off his coffee. 

“I was going to say until we’re free to return.” 

“Same thing.” Quentin sipped his coffee and Eliot prayed to the universe for patience to deal with this one. 

“Q, honeylove, I know this isn't easy. But I’m here with you and I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you try to push me away.” He reached out and smoothed Quentin’s tousled hair. “So eat your pastry and get dressed, all right? Your father’s night nurse leaves in an hour.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

Ted Coldwater’s Brooklyn home was almost unchanged from when Quentin left it to pursue a life of magic at Brakebills and ended up as Fillorian royalty instead. He’d been back to the house only twice--once when his father first got the brain cancer diagnosis and this past Christmas, when Ted learned there was little more doctors could do for him. Now, seven months later, he needed almost constant care so Quentin made the choice to return one last time. He left his new home at Whitespire and came back to his childhood home to see to his father as best he could. After exchanging a good deal of gold for cash, Eliot secured the Chelsea townhouse for them and traveled to Brooklyn for several hours a day with Quentin to care for Ted until the night nurse returned at 6 p.m. 

“Dad?” Quentin called as he unlocked the front door. 

“Hey son,” Ted replied from his rented hospital bed, which the boys had set up in the living room because of its larger size. The TV played, muted, showing two grinning sports talk show hosts chattering at each other as baseball highlights played in the background and a sports news crawl crept across the bottom of the screen. 

“Hey.” Quentin set his messenger bag down. “We’re not late, are we?” 

“No. Shirley left . . .” Ted paused, frowning. “Must have been at least ten hours ago.” 

“Minutes, dad.” Quentin corrected him, and Ted nodded. 

“Right. Hey, Eliot.” 

“Hi, Mr. Coldwater.” 

“I told you, it’s Ted. There’s no ‘mister’ after helping Quentin empty my bedpan.” He gave Eliot a wan smile. 

“Jesus, dad,” Quentin frowned as he picked up his father’s pill box. “I’m going to fill this and call the pharmacy. Do you want some tea?” 

“That’d be good, Curly-Q, thanks,” Ted nodded, and Quentin vanished into the kitchen. Ted shifted in the bed and Eliot stepped forward. 

“Can I help with anything, Ted?” 

“If I could have my glasses?” 

“Sure.” Eliot took them from the nearby table, cleaned them, and settled them on Ted’s face. 

“Thank you.” Ted patted his hand. “You know, I’ve wanted to tell you how good I think you are for my son.”   


Eliot cleared his throat, unused to such praise. 

“Oh. Thank you . . . I care about him a great deal.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. He’ll need that once I’m gone. He’s a good boy, my Curly Q.” Ted’s eyes slipped closed and Eliot stepped away, inching down the hallway to examine some pictures hanging there. One was a large twelve-frame collage and featured Quentin through the years, from a tow-headed boy of four to an undersized kid of ten or eleven, dressed in jeans and a  _ Dungeons and Dragons _ tee. In the background of each photo, Eliot spotted a massive Ferris wheel, part of a roller coaster, a midway full of try-your-luck games. 

“That’s Quentin on his birthday,” Ted said suddenly, making Eliot start. “Every year, he’d want to go to Coney Island so his mom and I would take him, rain or shine. He loved the rides, and he usually wouldn’t let us leave until one of us won him some kind of stuffed toy,” Ted smiled. “He’s always been partial to them.” 

Eliot thought of the roomy bedroom he and Quentin shared back at Whitespire. On one end of Quentin’s dresser, amid stacks of books and toiletries, sat a floppy-looking brown stuffed pony that smelled like sage and lavender. 

“Q keeps a stuffed horse with his things back home,” Eliot nodded. “I always assumed it was special to him.”   


“Son of a gun, Cozy Horse!” Ted smiled, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll be damned. I bought that for him when he was nine . . . maybe ten. Had his appendix out and got some kind of infection afterward. He was in the hospital almost a week, and I bought that horse during one of my trips to the gift shop. You can pop it in the microwave and it warms up . . . the scent is supposed to be comforting, you know. He named it out of one of those books he likes so much.” 

Eliot looked back up at the photos. He knew Ted probably had little clue as to the date, but his revelation about how Quentin spent many of his past birthdays gave him a possible answer to his partner’s current blues. 

____________________________________________________________________________

A few phone calls summoned a temporary day nurse to the door within the following hour and with Ted properly cared for, Eliot bundled Quentin into an Uber. 

“What’s going on?” Quentin asked as Eliot slid into the vehicle’s backseat with him. “El, I have to take care of dad, I can’t just leave!” 

“Yes, you can. The nurse I called in will look after him.” 

“But where are we going?” Quentin asked, and Eliot handed the driver a post-it he’d nabbed from the Coldwater’s fridge door. 

“It’s a surprise,” Eliot said as the driver nodded his understanding. “So enjoy the ride.” 

“But--” Quentin began, then withered under Eliot’s stare. “Okay, okay!” He sighed as the car headed back toward the heart of the city. Soon, they were leaving the crowded streets behind and heading toward the Brooklyn Peninsula. Quentin sat up a little. 

“I know this route,” he said suddenly, and Eliot pointed as the island’s roller coaster came into view. Quentin’s dark eyes widened. 

“We’re going to Coney Island?” 

“I’m taking you to Coney Island. For your birthday.” Eliot corrected. 

“You--it--you’re--” Quentin stammered. 

“Yes, you, it, the island, and yes, me. You deserve it, Q! You’ve been through hell lately, baby. Between Alice and your dad--” He paused as Quentin flinched. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. You need a day--or, in a perfect world, several days--to yourself, but barring that, I want to give you the kind of birthday you used to have.” 

The Uber pulled over to the curb and Eliot handed him some cash. 

“Thanks. C’mon, Q.” Eliot held the door open and his partner slipped out, tucking his hand under his arms as the distant shrieks of excited roller coaster riders reached them. Eliot tugged Quentin’s hands free and snagged one as they entered Luna Park. 

“I haven’t been here since . . .” Quentin paused in his pedantic manner to count. “Jesus, in almost fourteen years.” 

“I forget who said it, but life gets in the way,” Eliot replied. “It’s like when you move away from your hometown and the names of the people your parents and relatives mention kind of detach from your memory and pretty soon you can’t remember what these people look like or why they were so important to you.” 

Quentin nodded as they walked hand in hand toward the midway. The smells of fried sugar and popcorn dominated the air. In the near distance, the Cyclone’s cars thundered away. Eliot paused and surveyed the midway, each side packed with games. One stall held a mass of giant plush prizes and Eliot spied a squishy-looking chibi unicorn, the mane, tail, and hooves dyed an array of rainbow colors. He approached the stall, where the girl running it smiled, red hair spilling out the back of her baseball cap. 

“Try your luck? Three balls for $2.50.” 

“Sure.” Eliot tugged out his money clip. “What do I have to do to win that?” He pointed at the unicorn. The girl smiled with a touch of carny sympathy. 

“You have to sink three softballs in a row into any milk jug or hit the magic bullseye jug.” She gestured to a can painted red and white, with a slimmer mouth than the others. “It looks hard and I won’t lie, because it is, but it’s not impossible.” She lobbed a ball into the can. 

“All right.” Eliot handed over three singles, and the girl set the softballs out. Quentin, who’d been distracted by a nearby fortune-telling machine, came up to watch. 

“El, what are you doing?” 

“Farmers invented the milk jug toss,” He smiled and picked up the first ball. He tossed it and it bounced off the row of cans and into the trough at the back of the stall. 

“Aww, close! Try again!” The redhead smiled. 

Eliot lobbed the second ball toward the center of the jugs, where it bounced off one rim. Eliot picked up the last ball, imposing a guiding spell on it as he leaned toward Quentin. 

“Kiss for good luck?” He asked, and Quentin’s cheeks darkened a bit as Eliot planted a solid kiss on his mouth. Eliot took his time pulling back and then turned, tossing the spellbound ball with what looked like perceived aim. The spell obeyed, carrying the ball to the bullseyes jug and plunking it in. The girl pulled a rope and rang an overhead bell. 

“Big winner, we’ve got a big winner here!” She crowed, and Eliot grinned as he nodded to the unicorn. The carny wrestled it down and handed it to Eliot, who put it in Quentin’s arms. 

“El, I--” 

“Be quiet, it’s yours,” he said, and Quentin set it on the tops of his boots so the hooves wouldn’t get dirty. It was nearly as tall as the young magician stood. 

“It’s huge!” 

“Not the first time you’ve used those words in my presence.” 

“El!” 

“Lucky shot. C’mon, there’s a few other games I want to try.” 

Quentin shouldered the giant plushie and followed Eliot down the midway, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. 

One balloon burst, a rope ladder climbing game, and a ring toss stall later, Quentin and Eliot hit a snack stand, where Eliot bought them each a funnel cake. A large stuffed dragon, a buff-colored teddy bear, and a floppy-eared brown puppy the size of an adult Great Dane now flanked Quentin’s unicorn. 

“You didn’t have to win these for me,” Quentin said, and Eliot nodded. 

“I know. But you should know by now that I never do anything because I have to.” He took out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped some powdered sugar from Quentin’s upper lip. “How about we stash these prizes in a few lockers and go for a walk on the beach?” 

Quentin smiled. 

“I’d like that.” 

___________________________________________________________________________

Once Quentin’s prizes were secure, the two magicians took a stroll on the beach until the sun began to dip in the sky. Eliot bought two tickets to the park’s Wonder Wheel, which he and Quentin rode as they watched the sunset together. An hour later and a cooperative spell that allowed them to portal back to their townhouse found the two men eating large chocolate cupcakes from Door Dash as they lounged in bed together. The cache of plushies sat in one corner of the bedroom, ready for an eventual trip back to Fillory. 

“You realize Margo will probably kill us if we bring these plushies back to Whitespire,” Quentin said as he licked chocolate off his fingers. 

“It’s a castle, not a mobile home. There’s plenty of room,” Eliot replied as he set his empty plate aside. “So tell me . . . did you enjoy your birthday?” 

Quentin rolled to his knees, threw his arms around Eliot’s neck, and kissed him until the taller man gasped for air. 

“Can . . . I count that . . . as a yes?” He managed, and Quentin tugged down the lounge pants Eliot wore before skimming off his own. 

“Oh, it’s very much a yes,” Quentin replied as he climbed into Eliot’s lap and slid both hands under Eliot’s tee, clever fingers finding and strumming across his nipples. He teased the nubs to hardness and shifted until his own hardening cock rubbed and slid against Eliot’s. He leaned in, hands splayed like twin starfish across Eliot’s chest, to kiss him again as his hips worked and twisted. Eliot slid his hands under Quentin’s ass and helped him move as he thrust his hips and gazed into Quentin’s bright eyes. 

“God Q . . .” he groaned before pulling his left hand to his mouth and wetting his index finger. Quentin watched, his breathing growing steeper as the hand returned to its former spot but that long finger slipped inside him, angled back, and began to press at his prostate with a steady and delicious rhythm. Quentin gasped and he buried his face in Eliot’s neck, his skin damp with desire. 

“Come for me Q,” Eliot whispered to him. “Come on, my sweet love.” 

Quentin ground himself against Eliot’s erection and thrills chased up his spine as the tension in his base of his cock and lower belly reached its peak. Quentin rode that feeling, like reaching the peak of the Cyclone’s first big hill back at Coney Island, before rocketing down the other side. Eliot tensed and his tall frame shuddered, the motion and Eliot’s urgent groan pushing Quentin over the edge. He arched back against Eliot’s finger and gasped out his partner’s name as he fountained against Eliot’s jerking hardon and was rewarded with an answering wetness there. 

“Fuck!” Eliot gasped as his hips bucked and his right hand squeezed at Quentin’s asscheek before both men slumped against each other, spent. His defenses lowered, Quentin kept his face buried in Eliot’s neck as he fought a sudden thickness in his throat. “Q?” Eliot asked. “Are you okay?” 

Quentin nodded, not trusting his voice, and Eliot cupped his chin. 

“Hey . . . I’m right here, it’s okay.” He pushed a damp lock of hair from Quentin’s face. 

“It’s not you,” Quentin replied, his voice shaky. “I guess it’s just . . . you know how it is when you’re a kid, and you look at your parents, and it’s like they’re ageless and kind of omnipotent?” 

“Mmmhmm,” Eliot nodded as he eased Quentin off his lap and performed a cleaning spell on them both. Quentin leaned one cheek against Eliot’s chest. 

“This thing with my dad . . . the cancer? It’s like that perception I had is completely shattered. Like I thought I understood death before, but it was this concept. Kind of an abstract one, too, and now . . .” 

“I know, baby,.” Eliot stroked his hair. “I wish I could undo it for you. I’d do it in a second if I had the power.” 

“You did--at least for today,” Quentin said as he lifted his head. “You gave me the best day I’ve had since I got into Brakebills.” He kissed Eliot’s lips and touched his cheek. “Thank you, El.” He rested his head on Eliot’s chest again and dropped off into a satisfied sleep. Eliot stroked his hair as he listened to the distant evening heartbeat of the city, coupled with Quentin’s deep, even breathing. 

_ Quentin Coldwater,  _ he thought to himself,  _ you deserve the word. Here, in Fillory, and in a multitude of whatever timelines we inhabit in the future.  _


End file.
